


Two Shirley Temples Neat

by Nehszriah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Hour
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fic, Slow Burn, but it's what the prompter wanted, or at least there's an implied slow burn, so light as in they're on the same level, this goes against my preferred Randall ship, very light Administration/Teacher relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mister Coburn needed a sabbatical—his wife was rather ill and he wasn’t entirely sure how long he was going to need. That was why he called a staff meeting one day before a school holiday, introducing his staff to his semi-permanent replacement due to the suddenness of the leave. [Randall/Clara AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following is a post-s8 AU where Santa did not kill a man for his OTP, as well as a modern-context AU for The Hour, which I desperately need to rewatch.

Mister Coburn needed a sabbatical—his wife was rather ill and he wasn’t entirely sure how long he was going to need. That was why he called a staff meeting one day before a school holiday, introducing his staff to his semi-permanent replacement due to the suddenness of the leave.

“This is Mister Brown, a good friend of mine,” Mister Coburn explained. “He’s going to be here for the duration of my leave. If you have any issues, feel free to come to him about anything, and you can still get in touch with me through him.”

Standing just behind the headmaster was Mister Brown; he was greying, wearing a nice suit, and had his hair tamed by an incredible amount of product. Grey eyes peered out over his new staff from behind browline glasses, taking in the group with a precise sort of silence.

“I hope to be helpful in the future and make sure everything runs as smoothly as possible in Coburn’s absence,” Brown said, his low-toned Glasgow burr evident. “Does anyone have any questions for me, while we’re all here?”

“Where’d you work before?” someone wondered. “You don’t seem like the retired-early type.”

“I used to be an international photographer, working with the BBC,” Brown replied. “I needed a change, and this was the perfect opportunity. Schools are quiet, calm places. Anything else?”

A couple questions about policy and protocol ensued and the meeting adjourned. Everyone was on the same page when it came to the temporary headmaster. The meeting dispersed and everyone allowed to go off on their three-day weekends. The rest of the staff shook Mister Brown’s hand as they went out, each greeting him separately before leaving. Brown glanced over at Coburn once they were the only two in the room, raising an eyebrow slightly.

“Who was the one who asked the first question?” he inquired. “Short with the sad eyes.”

“That was Miss Oswald—she’s been like that since another member of staff died suddenly. They were dating and it came as a bit of a shock. Surely you can sympathize with that.”

“Of course I can.”

* * *

A few weeks passed and Mister Brown was doing his regular tour of the school. He enjoyed taking a stroll at precisely 9:30, arriving back at his office by 11, 10:30 if things were going smoothly. Today was one of those days, with him sitting back down at his desk precisely at 10:32. He had a bit of free time, so he went and began to straighten out the top of his desk. Things had been placed rather slapdash all over everything during his time away from the office, and it would never do.

Just as he cleared off all the papers, another small pile plopped down on the empty space. Brown glanced up and saw Miss Oswald, looking at him peculiarly.

“Here are the exam scores you wanted,” she explained. “I’m sorry it took so long, but I had to hand-mark everything.”

“Why’s that?” he asked. “Was the marking machine broken?”

“No—I wrote the test myself and there were too many writing portions to make a scanned portion practical,” she said. “I gave you a sample copy, in case you’re interested.”

“Why, I’m _very_ interested,” he replied, giving her the barest smile. He picked up the top stapled packet and quickly skimmed it before turning his attention back to Oswald, who was turning to leave. “Are you on your prep hour?”

“No; that’s not until after lunch. Thought I’d use silent reading to pop in. Ta.”

She turned the corner and left him alone before he could utter a word. Mister Brown read through the exam thoroughly, marveling at the skill in which it was put together. He could tell this Miss Oswald was someone who loved her job and cared about the students’ comprehension of the material. Going over the exam scores, he could tell who were the ones who paid attention, who didn’t, and who was trying despite having a difficult time grasping the material. He went through every one personally, delivering the papers to Miss Oswald during her prep hour.

“This is brilliant work,” he said. “Goes a bit against the grain, but that’s what we need in this day and age.”

“Wouldn’t peg you as a rebel either,” she smirked. “Look too straight-laced for that sort of thing.”

“There’s a reason I wanted a change,” he quipped. Mister Brown then left, after which Oswald found herself blushing, face red-hot.

No, it was just her imagination.

* * *

Christmas party: bright lights, potluck food, and plenty of alcohol to go around. Instead of using the assembly hall, everyone had pitched in to rent a hall so that merriment and work did the least amount of crossover possible.

“You know Mister Brown, you’re a very mysterious man,” the attendance secretary giggled. She was already way past her limit and was swaying slightly as she leaned in towards him, enough for him to catch a whiff of both her perfume and her breath. “I mean, I work in the same office as you and I barely know a thing about you.”

“I prefer to be a bit more private, thank you,” he replied. He was politely sipping at a drink, attempting to make civil discussion, though the secretary was attempting to hang all over him, as well as every other male not wearing a wedding ring in the vicinity. Miss Oswald, however, knew immediately where this was going and decided to save all the otherwise-taken men of Coal Hill’s teaching staff.

“Come on now Violet; let’s get you home,” she muttered. There wasn’t much to do there anyhow, except drink, and while that was nice and all, there were plenty of other things that she could be doing _that very moment_ and none of them involved being there.

“I don’t wanna,” the secretary protested. She complained while Miss Oswald dragged her to the coats, prepared them to go into the brisk London air, and escorted her outside to the walk. Taxi hailed, the two women walked over to the vehicle, though it was neither of them that opened the door.

“Ladies first,” Mister Brown said. When did he get there? He and Oswald kept the secretary under control until they could drop her off with her grateful boyfriend. The two then walked back to the taxi, Mister Brown holding open the door again. “Where to?”

Miss Oswald thought for a quick moment before answering, “Are you busy? I can make you some tea for your troubles. You didn’t have to help me, after all.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” They slid into the taxi and Miss Oswald gave the directions to her flat. The cab arrived in nearly no time at all, with Mister Brown insisting on paying the fare.

The flat itself was small and cluttered, though Mister Brown found it to be rather cozy. He waited patiently in the sitting room as his hostess put together tea, taking the time to glance around and attempt to figure out more about her. There were photos of landmarks, her with a couple different men, even one of her with a young toddler. She entered the room to find him staring at a photo of her and a dark-skinned man, looking as if her companion was taking the picture as a phone selfie.

“That was Danny,” she said, putting the tray down on the coffee table. “He’s been gone almost three years now—time flies.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” He placed it back on the bookshelf and readjusted it to match the rest of the frames before he sat down next to her on the couch. “You and your dads though… those are nice pictures too.”

“I’m sorry…?” She blinked in confusion as he reached behind the couch and plucked a frame from the table there. He showed it to her and she burst into laughter. “Oh, you meant him! He’s not my dad—he was one of my best friends!”

“Was?” Mister Brown asked. “I hope he didn’t meet the same fate as Danny then. Some of the other staff have told me.”

“No, we just had a falling out, is all,” Miss Oswald clarified. “We made up, but we couldn’t keep going on… so we split. It’s better now, in a way. I’m not nearly on the go as much.”

“You enjoy traveling?”

“I enjoy adventures.” She poured them tea and opened up the biscuit tin. “What about you?”

“I’ve had enough of adventuring for my tastes,” he replied. “All the photos I have on the walls are usually the ones I took for work, yet they’re just as varied.”

“A photographer for the BBC though… I can only imagine.” She watched as Mister Brown took out his phone and pulled up a photo he had taken long ago. He then passed it to her, which made her brown eyes go wide. “Wait a second, you’re _Randall Brown_?! You’ve won more awards for your work than I’ve had kids pass my finals with full marks!”

“Not that many, but a couple, thank you,” he said quietly. Mister Brown took a sip of tea, trying to steady himself. “How have you heard of me?”

“You had a couple accolades in a row while I was taking a photography class in university to fill a spot,” she explained. “My professor couldn’t shut up about you, honestly. Almost could have sworn she was a bit more than keen—more a gossipy aunt than a teacher, to be honest.”

“Your professor?” he chuckled. “Any photography professor worth a damn knows that even with all the practice and planning in the world, most of what we do in the field revolves around a distinct amount of sheer luck. She probably had that job after doing a few weddings before discovering she was rubbish at it.”

“No… she was really good herself,” she said. “Professor Storm was a war correspondent. Alexis… you might have run into her…” Miss Oswald stopped as she saw Mister Brown grow intensely quiet, sipping his tea intently. “Mister Brown…?”

“Lix died in Kashmir a short while after you had her as an instructor,” he said. He straightened the tea tray before continuing. “I was in Egypt at the time, doing a piece on an exhibit in Alexandria, when I got the news. Lix and I… we were close.”

“That… that sounds a bit more than close.”

“You’re correct about that.” He didn’t elaborate further, but instead changed the topic to plans for Christmas.

* * *

Mister Brown went to sleep that night staring at the empty half of his bed. It didn’t always feel so empty, but now it did… how curious.

Miss Oswald didn’t go to bed. Instead, she sat up on her laptop, browsing through news articles relating to Randall Brown and Alexis Storm. She didn’t come up with much, but it was enough to keep her on the couch long enough to fall asleep on it.

* * *

The next time they ran into one another, it was at the park. It was right before New Year’s and both were out for a stroll. Mister Brown decided to play host this time and invited Miss Oswald over for tea, since his flat was much closer than hers. She took him up on the offer and soon she found herself surrounded by white and stainless steel and tasteful décor that was more pleasing than any man’s flat she’d ever been in.

“You were right that these are some of your better pieces,” she said while looking at the photographs on the walls. “I really like this one—all the wildflowers covering the ruined building.”

“I think I took that one in Bosnia,” he replied from the kitchen. “It was at the very beginning of the roll, so I really couldn’t tell.”

“Can’t remember where you snapped your own photos?” she teased. He carried two steaming mugs of tea into the sitting room and passed one to her. Straightening the one frame, he double-checked the others to make sure they were aligned properly.

“Too pissed to know where I was—it was how I coped with being a war photographer,” he said. “Everyone finds a different way to deal with it, and mine was I did what my forefathers did and became a functioning drunk stereotype.”

“When’d you put it down?” Miss Oswald wondered. He cocked an eyebrow and she gave him a sympathetic look. “You had a couple drinks at the Christmas party, but they were kiddie cocktails; I’m not an idiot.”

“Not long after that photo,” Mister Brown admitted, gesturing towards the wildflowers. “I was at my worst in the Balkans, and it was only when I sobered up to come back home did I realize I missed everything… my career, Lix, Sophia…”

“Sophia? Another girlfriend?”

“My daughter…” He cringed, not wanting the words to come out of his mouth. “Lix’s daughter; our families were old-school, so we didn’t tell them and gave her up. Can’t raise a baby when there’s sodding genocide happening all around you, nor when you’re being harped on for not walking down the aisle because you’re too busy with your careers.”

“Oh.” She watched him as he sat down on an armchair, a far-off look in his eyes. Those were eyes she had seen on Danny, years ago now, when he would talk about the grimmer details of deployment, the stuff that wasn’t about building schools and digging wells. “She’s about the age for uni now, yeah? Ever thought about looking her up?”

“York, November 1998, faulty electric caused a multi-house fire where almost everyone died… Sophia included.” She sat down on the arm of the chair, worried for the unnatural calmness in his voice. “Sometimes I visit her when I’m in the area; was told she had a pleasant life, and I believe it. The thought makes it all a bit better.”

“Would you do it over?”

“Yeah.” Not even the faintest bit of hesitation. “Sober up quicker, marry Lix, be Sophia’s dad—it’d involve sticking myself in a photography studio or a newspaper in the UK, losing some awards, but seeing the dull grass over here, it’s not difficult to think of the other pasture as greener.”

“I… I can understand that,” she said. Miss Oswald picked up Mister Brown’s hand and held it, loaning him her strength. He cautiously leaned over and, when it was clear she wasn’t moving, placed his head on her shoulder.

“Call me Randall, please.”

“Then I’m Clara.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got another prompt for this verse, so here you go.
> 
> This takes place immediately after the first chapter.

They talked for hours, over tea and biscuits, without really caring about time. Randall had some takeaway delivered and then they talked for even _longer_ , until finally Clara caught a glimpse of the time.

“Shit—it’s past two,” she realized. “How’d it get this late?”

“When people get wrapped up in a conversation, time vanishes,” he said. Randall saw as his guest was gathering up her things, to which he stood up and gently took her elbow. “You don’t have to leave.”

“What…?”

“What I mean is: you can borrow some pajamas and sleep in the bed—I’d feel better with having a guest stay overnight on accident than go out into the cruel London night.”

“Oh… alright…” she nodded. Clara set her purse back down on the coffee table and followed Randall to his bedroom. He took two sets of pajamas out of a dresser drawer and handed one to her. “My granddad used to have pajamas like this.”

“Then your granddad had good taste,” he chuckled. “Do you need to use the toilet? I’m going to take a shower.”

“No, I’m fine,” she said.

With that, Randall retreated to his ensuite bathroom and took a cold, sobering shower. It felt awkward to know that he had _Miss Oswald_ on the other side of the door, and that she would be there when he woke up in the morning. Christ, this was a woman he admired for her quick-thinking and sharpness… one that he _worked with_ to boot. Well, he _had_ worked with Lix, but rough, drunk fucking while waiting for darkroom space in the middle of a warzone wasn’t much basis for a relationship. They got on while sober too, but there was no whisky to help him this time—the next could be his last, the doctor had said, and while part of him had wanted to get it over with all those years ago, now he was glad to have not slammed back a farewell shot after writing his epitaph.

Randall came out of the bathroom to find Clara placing the small pile of her clothes on the chair sitting next to the bedroom door. She was incredibly small in the pajamas, having rolled the arms and cuffs up at least three or four times while absolutely swimming in the rest. He grabbed a pillow from the bed and began to walk out, though she stepped in front of him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

“The couch; it’s comfortable enough,” he replied.

“Nuh-uh,” she said, poking him in the chest. “I am _not_ going to have you sleep on the couch on my account. We’re adults, yeah?”

“Yes…”

“Then sleep next to me,” she demanded.

It was a simple enough request, so he silently relented. He put the pillow back and laid down, with Clara hunkering down next to him. They bid one another goodnight and went to sleep.

About an hour and a half later, Randall woke up to discover that he needed to use the loo. It was happening with more frequency as of late, something he blamed on his age, as much as he didn’t want to admit he was becoming an old man. He checked to make sure his movement hadn’t woken up Clara, and took a leak in the ensuite. It had nearly become an opportunity to take his pillow and head to the couch anyhow when he saw the worried look on Clara’s face. Her face was wrinkled up in a frown and it nearly looked like she was crying. He got back into bed and looked closer—she _was_ crying. He gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close, stroking her back in an attempt to soothe her.

“There, there; everything’s alright,” he murmured, not knowing if she could hear him or not. “You’ll be fine.”

Clara woke with a start, shivering violently in her host’s arms. He snaked his other arm around her, hoping it was the right thing.

“Hey, it was just a dream,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I—I’m fine,” she insisted.

“No, you weren’t,” he stated. “It’ll be alright; it was a bad dream, nothing else. I know how to take care of bad dreams.”

“You don’t need to take care of me… I didn’t ask for it.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

At that, she pushed away from him, propping herself up on her elbow to get a good look at the man she was sharing a bed with. Even he was too skinny for the pajamas they were wearing, with a face softened and lined with age and eyes that were slightly squinting to see her in the dark room. She leaned down, gently kissing him in thanks.

“You don’t need to worry about this broken bird,” she whispered against his mouth.

“The broken know how to treat one another though,” he replied gently. He guided her back down into another kiss, which they kept up long enough for her eyes to dry. She then laid down again, except this time, she snugged herself up close against his body. It was an incredible thing, Randall thought, how tiny she felt next to him, yet how perfectly she fit in his arms.

It was a feeling he was dreading the end of.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning broke and Randall woke up with an unfamiliar weight pressing into his chest. He glanced down and saw it was Clara… yes. That was right. He had planned on heading out towards the couch, yet he couldn’t stand seeing her looking as though she was going through one hell of a nightmare. They had kissed because of it—a long, meandering thing—and gone back to sleep in one another’s arms. Now she was using his shoulder as a pillow and they were holding each other tight.

‘ _I wonder_ …’ he mused. She _had_ never told him what was going on that made her so upset; it hadn’t made sense to press the matter the night before. A few contemplative minutes passed before she began to stir as well, letting out a breath of resignation.

“Oh God, I didn’t imagine it,” she muttered.

“Imagine what?”

“My first proper snog in years.” She gently eased herself from his grasp and laid on her stomach, looking at him as she propped herself up on her elbows. “Is this a mistake?”

“Is what a mistake? We shared a bed and kissed.”

“It’s just…” Clara glanced off to the side for a moment before making eye contact again. “I feel bad; there’s only two men I’ve ever thought I could be with. One’s dead, the other’s gone, and I’m not sure if I can honestly give you more than what happened last night.”

“Danny and John,” Randall nodded, recalling the names of the men she talked about. A boyfriend and a best friend, neither of them were in her life anymore and hadn’t been for years. “You know, sometimes hearts change, and it’s nothing against those who have come and gone.” He reached out and tucked some of her hair behind her ear. “You’ve got a stunning mind, Clara… an adventurous soul. Even if this is it for us, you’re the sort of person who will do great things and will have no problem finding someone in the end.”

“I’m just… I don’t know. When Danny died and John left, it felt like it was the universe trying to tell me something, as if it was saying I wasn’t meant to be happy. Well, not _happy_ -happy, but you know… content with someone else.”

“That’s the only problem with youth,” he said. Rolling onto his side, he took her hand in his, holding tight. “We all think we know everything when we’re young, and even though we may know plenty about many, many things, in reality none of us know what’s going on.”

“So what you’re saying is that I snogged an old man last night without realizing it?” she chuckled. He laughed too, albeit weakly.

“I’ve been an _old man_ since I was in my thirties,” he replied. He saw that her hair slipped out from behind her ear and he replaced it again, letting his fingertips brush against her cheek. “I’ll tell you a secret though.”

“…and what’s that?”

“When I’m chatting with you, I know I’m older, but I don’t _feel_ like I’m that much older. A couple years, at the most, and it’s the most incredible feeling I’ve had since I can remember.”

She went quiet at that. She held his hand again, pensive. “Really?”

“You’re a rare breed, Clara Oswald, I can feel it. I’ve met many people and because of that, I know how to read those around me. People like you don’t pop into someone’s life every day.” Randall leaned in and kissed her jaw, lightly pressing his lips to her skin. He could smell the perfume still lingering in her hair and the scent of the fabric softener he used on the pajamas. “May I please try?”

“I think there would be a conflict of interest, what with the school and all,” she replied. The tone in her voice and the look in her eyes told him a different story though, because how can she know if there was a third man out there if she never gave him a fighting chance?

“Then there’s some interesting news I’ve got for you,” he said. “Mister Coburn rang me up a couple days ago—he’s returning for the Spring term. I only have a week at Coal Hill after the break and I’m back to my self-imposed retirement.”

“I didn’t think Missus Coburn was going to get better that quickly,” she marveled.

“No, but they’re about to drive each other insane, so he’s coming back early.”

“…meaning, if we wanted to try something, we can.”

“Only if you want; simply because I offer doesn’t mean you have to accept.”

Clara thought about it, or at least tried to, considering the offer with utmost seriousness. When she made up her mind, she shimmied across the sheets and carefully eased Randall onto his back, which allowed her to settle herself securely on his hips. She gazed down at the man under her, taking in his pale eyes and mussed hair. They were wearing matching pajama sets and had just spent the night cuddling chastely—the opportunity was right in front of her. She bent down and kissed him, giving him his answer.

Almost timidly, he parted his lips and gave her access to his mouth. With the way he held and kissed her, she could tell that it had been a long time since he had done this with _anyone_ , let alone someone he wanted to potentially do this with again. How long ago was it since she had Miss Storm as her photography instructor? Long enough for his going without to be a sin in her eyes. Pulling away from his mouth, she began to kiss the stubble along his cheeks and make her way down his neck to his shoulder.

“Clara…?”

“Hmm…?”

“I’d like to make you some breakfast, if you don’t mind.”

She left a final kiss on his collarbone, closing her eyes as she let herself nestle against his chest. “Please; that would be nice.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, another out-of-order chapter/prompt fill that I'll put in the correct spot later. Thank you, everyone, for your patience.

Randall stood awkwardly at the side of the road, leaned up against his car. He clutched a bouquet of flowers in his right hand, keeping it down to his side as he kept his feet planted and his back firmly against the vehicle, all the while attempting to not fidget. Students were starting to pour out of Coal Hill, some of whom greeted him on their way home. If they saw the flowers, they made no mention of it, and kept on passing him, until a certain teenager caught sight of him.

“Hello there, Mister Brown!” Courtney Woods grinned. She was in her last year of school before university, and it seemed to actually register with her for the most part. During the previous term she was fairly well-behaved (or so he was told), and really proved that she was able to buckle down and put effort into her marks.

This, however, was not only after school, but outside of it as well. Neutral ground meant all bets were off.

“How are you, Miss Woods?” he asked. “Still keeping on the lawful side of ‘misunderstood’?”

“Yeah, and it’s driving me bonkers,” the teen sighed, rolling her eyes. “I did look into that novel you told me about though—Eastern Bloc policies were interesting, weren’t they?”

“They were, and the remnants still are,” he replied. He had seen a bit of himself in a few students during his time as Coal Hill’s temporary headmaster, Courtney included, and her interest in global political mechanizations, as well as his visual chronicles of the aftermath, prompted him to give her reading assignments in place of demerits and detentions.

“Hey, what’s that?” she asked, pointing at the flowers. Randall tried to hide them behind his leg, but it was too late. “Flowers? Who are you waiting for with _flowers_?”

“Never mind; don’t you have someplace to be?”

“Oh, aren’t you boring.” Courtney noticed the twitch in Randall’s eye and glanced over her shoulder. There was Clara, walking up towards them. “Ozzie? Really?”

“That is _personal_ , Miss Woods.”

“You know about Ozzie and the squaddie?” she deadpanned.

“Of course, as well as the former caretaker.”

“Well, I guess after Mister Pink, you can’t blame her for wanting something different, though ‘Ozzie and the Scottie’ doesn’t go nearly as well.” Clara finally reached them, which was the teen’s cue to bow out. “See you Mister Brown, Miss Oswald.”

“Now what was that about?” Clara wondered as she watched her student giggle off.

Randall held up the bouquet, his hand trembling. Silently, his date took the flowers and brought his face down to lightly kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you—can we pop by my flat so I can put these in water? They’re too pretty to sit on the back seat and whiter while we eat.”

“Y-Yeah,” he replied. They went into the car and drove away, passing Courtney on their way down the street. She chuckled, holding in her elation at the development.

‘ _She’s in good hands, Mister Pink_ ,’ she thought. ‘ _It wasn’t the Caretaker bloke after all, but he’s just as good… maybe even better_.’

* * *

It didn’t take long once Randall put his car into park outside of Clara’s flat for her to return. Instead of the bouquet, she had an overnight bag that she tossed into the back before getting back in the passenger seat, something she said was “just in case” when her date wondered what it was for.

A visit to a fashionable gastropub and a dance hall later, and the two went back to Randall’s flat for some coffee. Clara sat at the breakfast bar and watched him prepare the drink, taking in the man before her.

“What…?” he asked, noticing her silent gaze.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied. He was still a bit sweaty from the too-warm dance hall, where bodies and fast music kept the place heated despite the winter month. “I enjoy seeing you in a bit of disarray.”

His hand immediately went up to his hair and attempted to smooth it down. Most of the product he had put in that morning had been compromised due to sweat and the light rain shower they were caught in on the way back to the carpark. It didn’t work, so he wiped his hand on his trousers and kept going with the coffee.

“It’s nice—I like it.”

“My hair is too wild to let run free,” he muttered. “It’s disorderly, but at least I can control it to a degree.”

“Not everything should be controlled,” she smirked. Randall came around the bar with their coffee and sat down next to her, close enough so that his knobby knee touched hers. “One of the best looks on you is seriously when you first get up in the morning.”

He didn’t answer that, instead reaching for the biscuit plate and taking a finger of shortbread. Chewing idly, he kept his eyes on his mug.

“You know, John was someone who shouldn’t have been controlled either,” she eventually said. Clara took a sip of coffee and reminisced fondly. “I enjoyed the chaos that came with him… you know, the kind of person you’d check out a rubbish heap in the middle of the night with simply because they showed up at the door.”

“I used to be that sort of lad, back in my more reckless days,” he exhaled. “Not sure why a former rebel is so interesting to you, Clara.”

“You’re still a rebel… just one who has learned and become wiser with age,” she assured. “That’s what happens when a rowdy generation grows old—some become content, but others hide their passion, letting it out differently.”

“With speeches like that, sometimes I wonder which one of us is the elder,” he chuckled. He glanced over and before he knew it, he was leaning over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I really do appreciate you, Clara… more than I can express.”

“I think I can handle appreciation,” she replied gently. She carefully locked lips with his, making the kiss long and drawn out. When she couldn’t stand the overly-sweet taste of his coffee any longer, she pulled back, returning long enough to leave a kiss on his nose. “I think I’m going to shower.”

“I’ll listen for the water,” he said. Clara took her overnight bag and went into the guest bathroom, where there was a shower ready and waiting. It appeared that she was staying the night again, which was fine by Randall. The bed was warmer with her there, cozier, with the right amount of counterweight contained within her small frame. Two nights prior he’d woken up to himself hugging a pillow when he hadn’t gone to sleep that way, something he’d never admit to her not for fear of being teased, but for fear of driving her away.

A few minutes passed and Randall could hear water rushing through the pipes. He stood and abandoned the coffees, heading towards his bedroom to prepare for a shower himself. Pajama bottoms and a t-shirt were going to have to do, as his sets were all in the hamper. He went into the ensuite and undressed, waiting patiently in the shower stall. When the sound of Clara’s shower ceased, he turned the knob and let the cold, sobering water pour down on him. He took his time; she’d still be around when he got out.

Once his pajamas on and his hair rubbed dry, Randall found the courage to exit the ensuite into the main of his bedroom. There, sitting with her legs under the covers as she read in bed, was Clara with her hair twisted up in a towel to dry. He slid in next to her, grabbing his spectacles and a book off the side table.

“Reading a good one?” he wondered as he kissed her cheekbone.

“One of yours, actually—done with a German bloke, going by the name on the cover.”

“Oh.” He took a peek at the page she was on, seeing protest signs written in both Polish and English. “That feels like a lifetime ago.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

They sat there reading for a short while until Clara left, going to finish drying her hair. While she was gone, Randall took off his specs and laid down fully, making sure that his body was on the correct side of the sheets. When Clara returned to join him, she rolled her eyes as she snuggled up in his grasp.

“You are the most terrified man I’ve ever met… and I’ve dated a man who wore no less than two layers,” she snorted. “We don’t need a sheet between us.”

“It makes me feel better, believe it or not,” he admitted. “We’ve taken many steps very quickly—don’t want to fly too close to the sun now.”

“Mmm… goodnight,” she hummed, pressing her forehead against his chest.

“Night,” he echoed. He allowed himself a smile every time he echoed her sentiment, and tonight was no different.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops, I got another prompt for this pairing/AU, so here's some more.

As it had turned out, Mister Coburn returned to Coal Hill for the winter term. His wife wasn’t better, but he was apparently driving her insane being around all the time and had requested he return to work and leave her be. This meant Mister Brown was out of a job, though he didn’t seem to mind.

“Now no one can look at us and say we’re doing anything wrong,” he explained one day over scrambled eggs. Miss Oswald—no, _Clara_ —had stayed over the night before, the two of them having slept tangled together purely for warmth (and the fact he only had one bed, which she refused to kick him out of) on the cold February night.

“Not entirely sure why you keep on saying that,” she shrugged. “It’s not like you were a permanent staff member over at Coal Hill, and we haven’t so much as slept together. You’re simply paranoid when it comes to ethics.”

“Paranoid for a reason,” he replied. “You pick up a few things in journalism, and how to stay off people’s radar is often one of them.” Randall then recalled something she had said earlier and frowned. “Are you… happy?”

“…what do you mean?”

“You’ve mentioned how we haven’t _slept_ together; that’s something people mention if they want it.”

“We’ve known one another since October—what do you think?”

“I think it’s something you need to say if it’s what you want.”

Clara put her fork down and rested her arms on the table. “Well, yeah, I hope we do get to it, but a slower pace for a relationship isn’t a bad thing. I’ve been in relationships where it’s purely sex, and some where I barely saw the man with less than two layers. It’s fine.” She arched a brow in intrigue. “Are _you_ happy with where we’re at? I wouldn’t be bothered if you wanted to pick up the pace.”

“Oh…?”

“You’re older,” she elaborated, as if he wasn’t aware. “You missed out on a lot, and it wouldn’t be a surprise if you wanted to catch up as much as humanly possible while you had the chance.”

“That would be using you, and I’m not about to use you,” he muttered. “However long it takes for this to be natural, that’s how long I’ll wait.”

“Professor Storm was right—you _are_ dense,” she chuckled lowly. Clara finished off her eggs and put away her dishes before leaving Randall a kiss on his forehead. Touching his scandalously bare shoulder, she played with the fabric of his vest as he averted his eyes. “I have to get ready for work, okay?”

He nodded, guiltily stealing a glance at her as she returned to the bedroom. Not _any_ bedroom, but _his_ bedroom. They had been bed-sharing after long nights of dinner and talking for well over a month now; the Randall of Yesteryear would be furious about him sleeping with a sheet between them and having never seen her in anything more revealing than a camisole and pajama bottoms. He knew she wasn’t a starry-eyed girl naïve to the world, yet he felt hesitation when it came to wanting more than a night in with an intellectual conversation partner.

By the time Randall was done with his food and put everything away, Clara was dressed to go to school. Her overnight bag was slung over her shoulder and she gave him a kind smile as he greeted her at the front door to give her a chase peck on the cheek.

“Check your diary and see when you’ve next got open,” she said. “I’m thinking we should go see a film or something… do things not-here.”

“Alright,” he replied. They bid one another good day and Randall was left alone again, as he always was when it was time for Clara to go to work. His flat, what used to be a thing of solace, was now feeling more a prison than anything. It was a prison decorated by the bars he made—the Berlin Wall, Yugoslavia, Afghanistan… and Afghanistan _again_ … civil wars and uprisings and downfalls and all the human moments that took place in-between. Everything equated to a prestigious number of works, but when all was said and done, a CV was still only a piece of paper.

Dawdling on-purpose, it took Randall a while to get dressed. It was going to most likely be a day in, so a set of old trousers and a warm jumper it was. He didn’t even bother attempting to tame his hair, having washed all the product the night before, and now it was merely a giant fluff of grey. After checking his email, he began to do something he had never thought he’d really ever want to do again…

…he began to look for a job.

* * *

“Ah, there you are,” Clara grinned. She stood to greet Randall, the two of them kissing one another’s cheek. The restaurant they were in was quiet and trendy, not a complete change from their usual date locations, but at least it was in public this time. “When you were the one who suggested this place, I didn’t think you’d be late.”

“Sorry about that; my schedule earlier revolted against me… in a good way,” he said. They sat down and began to browse over the menu.

“This sounds interesting,” she replied. Clara glanced up to see that her date wasn’t so much as looking _at_ his menu as he was attempting to hide behind it. “What…?”

He quickly turned his eyes back to the menu. “It’s nothing—just thinking.”

“Thinking? About what?”

“Hold on.” The waiter came and took their orders, allowing Randall to adjust the silverware and contemplate how he was going to word things. Well, he’d had the entire commute to contemplate, but it all seemed different now that he was talking to her and not his windscreen. “I had an interview today.”

“You didn’t tell me you were job hunting,” she chuckled. “How long and where at?”

“I’ve been poking about since we were last together…”

“…so two weeks…”

“…and I was in East Sussex, actually, inquiring about the headmaster’s post that’s opening up in a creative arts school for next school year,” he said. The waiter brought them some bread and filled their water glasses, giving Clara time to soak the information in.

“East Sussex…?” she repeated. “Why East Sussex?”

“It would be in the country and nice and quiet, which I think is a welcome change from London, and the pay is more than worth moving out there.” He tore a chunk off his piece of bread and popped it in his mouth, pausing first to brush the crumbs off the tablecloth. “If I take this offer, would you move with me?”

“I… erm… this is sudden,” she admitted.

“You don’t have to decide tonight, and even if you don’t, I am more than willing to do something long-distance.” He watched her think, going inward as her mind raced. “I don’t have that much future left, Clara, and I want to start planning for it.”

“…and what, pray tell, is in this future?”

“A country house, a good-paying job, peace and happiness, things I didn’t think I’d ever have.”

She contemplated that. “…a wife?”

“Maybe.”

“Children?”

“If that’s what the wife wants, then certainly.”

“…and what would your wife do, while she’s not making babies?”

“Whatever she wants, whether that’s work or child-rearing or both or something else entirely,” he said with not a moment of thought. “I don’t want to pressure you, only give fair warning. If you can’t see yourself going through with it, I can understand and respect it, but…”

“What, do you think I’m scared?” she scoffed. She leaned forward, furrowing her brow playfully. “Oh, yes, scary fishermen and farms and whatever else they’ve got there.” Clara straightened and her expression turned concerned. “Shit… what _is_ there in Sussex? I’ve forgotten.”

“We can find out together,” he offered. He reached across the table and took her hand. “Nothing has to be official, but please, think about it.”

“I will, Randall,” she said. She squeezed his hand back affectionately. “I definitely will.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Turning the key in the lock, Randall stepped into the empty house and glanced around. It was rather large for something listed as a cottage, but he didn’t mind that. He was simply glad that he had been allowed to wander around it pressure-free, as the real estate agent was busy with another client and the former owner’s niece lived too far away to show him around. Small towns and trust were an interesting thing to encounter… though he knew part of the trust was that the neighbors were watching him like hawks.

He closed the door behind him and pocketed the keys. Randall didn’t even bother taking off his shoes, as the rugs appeared that they’d need shampooing anyhow before the place was inhabitable again. There was a distinct odor in the air that reminded him of his nan’s latter days, and that seemed to be the worst part of it all. Sheets covered most of the furniture both upstairs and down, most of which would be included with the house according to the agent, and there were surprisingly few spots where things appeared to be in need of an update. He took out his mobile and texted Clara when he reached the sitting room.

‘ _Do you have a minute? At the place on Newberry_.’

Twenty seconds later and the mobile rang. He swiped the call through and put it near his ear.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” he said.

“ _Not at all—the kids are sitting an exam and I can still watch them through the door’s window. What’s going on?_ ”

“I was able to get the keys from the real estate office and I’m going through the house we were looking at the other day. You said you wanted a better scale of what the rooms were, right?”

“ _Right_ …”

“Well, they’re a bit larger than we thought.” As he held the mobile with one hand, Randall began to straighten the photo frames on the walls and mantle, rearranging the knickknacks until everything was orderly again. “Dusty too—this is what we get for browsing estate sales.”

“ _The listing said it has only been empty a year_.”

“A year or not, it looks like a dust-gatherer.” He wandered over towards the back of the room, looking out the large French doors into the back garden. “Wasn’t kidding about the grounds though. Whether this has been sitting vacant or not, this was the garden of someone who tended it daily.”

“ _What do you think then?_ ” Clara asked. “ _You’re the one who would be buying a large lint filter of a house, not me_.”

“Get back to class, Miss Oswald.”

“ _Only because I trust your judgement, Mister Brown_ ,” she teased before ending the call.

Well, that _was_ the truth, considering he was the one with the savings built by years of high-paying jobs and the ability to charge nearly all expenses on his employers. He perched himself on the armrest of a sheet-covered chair and folded his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees. Could he really see himself in this house for the rest of his life? That was what it would be, all things considered.

Turning on the artistic part of his brain, Randall attempted to envision the possibilities that could occur within that very room. He could indulge in a warm fire, his wife at his side while children rolled around on the rug. The sitting room had the makings of a LEGO minefield or a quiet reading area. It even looked cozy enough for watching the news or documentaries on television, should he want to indulge in that sort of thing. Last he heard Bel was working on some program about the effects of the Blitz on the children who lived through it—he should really email her and ask.

Could imagine Clara there though? As fond as he was of her, part was still guilty that he had been thinking an awful lot about Lix and Sophia since the somewhat-proposal. Moving on didn’t mean forgetting, and he knew that, but mourning them was still unfair to those still alive.

Randall stood and walked over towards a bookcase, taking the handkerchief out of his pocket and dusting the shelves and book spines before replacing them. Partway through the second shelf and he realized that it was all out-of-order and knew that would never do. Sorting things… that was easy… soothing, almost. He could control the order of objects, and it helped him not to drink, or light a cigarette, or shout and cuss and throw things. They were all markers for various disorders and complicated things that he hadn’t been diagnosed in, yet still had to work around. Some would say he was not broken or malfunctioning, only different, but he knew different, as those were the people who wanted to find excuses for themselves as well.

He and Clara… they were both broken, and possibly this could help repair them. She had Danny and John he was sure a similar way to him having Lix and Sophia. A boyfriend and best friend wasn’t quite the same as a girlfriend and daughter, yet all four had been close to them and now they were lost. Could they even handle the country life, where everything was quiet and sleepy and largely uneventful? It was something they wouldn’t know until they tried.

An hour later and the real estate agent came walking through the front door, finding him putting the finishing touches on a second bookcase. She raised an eyebrow in concern, not entirely sure what she was stumbling upon, before clearing her throat.

“Is something the matter, Mister Brown?”

“Oh, um, a bit too much dust for my taste,” he admitted as he got up from the rug. “I guess Manchester’s a bit far to go just to tidy up.” Crumpling up his soiled handkerchief and stuffing it in his pocket, he gave the agent a cordial smile as he held out the keys towards her. “Tell me: how much was this place again?”

 


End file.
